


On a Bed of White Flowers

by noun



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Canon, background Laurent/Damen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24722662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noun/pseuds/noun
Summary: Nicaise has his first heat at an inopportune moment. Laurent lends advice and then a hand.
Relationships: Laurent/Nicaise (Captive Prince)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19
Collections: Heat Fic Summer 2020





	On a Bed of White Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HandmaidenOfHorror](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HandmaidenOfHorror/gifts).



It was hot. Someone was playing an imported kithara, somewhere beyond the gauzy veils that separated the pools. The sunset would bring some relief from the heat, as would the slow turning of seasons; Laurent had been reassured that this was the peak of expected discomfort.

Meanwhile, there was nothing to do but wait. In Akeilos, it was hotter, with the benefit of the wind off the ocean and a propensity for lighter clothing. Since the union, a number of cultural exchanges had occurred; the kithara, for one, but Laurent would not don gauzy tunics. Someone else in court could set that fashion.

Sweat pooled at the small of his back, along his legs, but the linen of his jacket and pants soaked it up, and the breeze did help in wicking it away. Between that, and the copious servings of sweet fruit juice, it was all made bearable. It was very nearly a luxury to simply be, working through problems at a leisurely pace.

He wondered how Damen was faring. Some manner of scanty outfit figured large in his imagining, broad thighs in full view of a hem that hitched higher every time he lifted his arms. He was a beta, true, but Akelian life and particularly the expected rigors of the life of a King had wrought with training and diet what nature did not automatically bestow. 

There was movement behind him, the smack of wet feet on hot stone, and as Jord, playing guard, did not stir, Laurent paid it no mind.

“What are you doing,” Nicaise said, and perched himself on the edge of Laurent’s bench, dripping water down from his soaked clothes. Then he reached for the sweating glass of juice, and drank from it, throat bobbing, until it was almost empty.

He did not bother to answer, but drew his feet up and away from the sodden young man. Nicaise did not leave, and a breeze stirred the veils, though not enough to reveal the figures behind them beyond suggesting silhouettes and the flash of clothing. 

“Nothing,” Laurent said, and that was partially true. It was simply too hot for anyone else to cause trouble. Any great exertion would have drawn the immediate notice of his various sources. The intrigues that did occur were relegated to the minor fussings of pets and gossip, angling for future contracts or using the heat to emphasize this piece of jewelry on bared skin or that diaphanous gown. 

“Boring,” Nicaise pronounced, and set down the glass loud enough that Laurent gave him a disapproving look.

“You’re not a child anymore,” he said. Nicaise had never been particularly inclined to tantrums, even if he had the standard pet tactics for kicking up a fuss in his arsenal. 

“It’s hot,” Nicaise cut back, “and I’m thirsty.” He stood and paced back to the veils, and caught the attention of a servant. He demanded refreshments, more than Laurent imagined he could stomach, and then returned to Laurent’s bench, his fingers tapping against the arm. It made his bracelets jingle.

Laurent immediately reassessed his previous assumptions about trouble, and sat up, his back against his side’s arm of the bench.

Nicaise was flushed and breathing through his mouth, lips parted. He was damp, having taken a dip in one of the pools. But it was rather against his nature to think he had done laps, especially bejeweled as he was.

The veils parted, and a servant brought forward a tray heaped with ices and sliced fruits. Nicaise glared at them as they entered, but reached forward to pluck a lump of ice off the top of a drink and hide it in his cheek. Taking advantage of the distraction, Laurent took hold of his wrist, pointer and middle fingers against the pulse point in his wrist. While it was not erratic, it was fast and hard. Nicaise hissed in annoyance, more akin to a cat, and Laurent said, “You’re in heat.”

Nicaise colored darker, annoyance and embarrassment overwriting exertion. 

Laurent had been foolish. He had assumed Nicaise had presented a few years ago, and had imitated Laurent. That was to say, he put his self-control to use in suppressing the urges that came with the heats and had made use of herbal remedies and alcohol to suppress the side-effects. Strong perfumes were common enough at court that one could be used to hide scents. That he was, instead, a late bloomer was of some comfort.

Nicaise closed his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked. 

Laurent’s own methods had changed with the introduction of Damen to his life. He could not hide himself away for a few days every year for a bacchanalia, but he could arrange to be near Damen, and seek relief rather than repression. Nicaise was technically part of his household and his pet, though Laurent did not make use of him for that purpose. 

“So?” Nicaise said, and Laurent raised his brow. 

“So?” he echoed, mildly.

“So what do I do?” Nicaise asked. It was a vast improvement that he was now taking advice. Sometimes. Once it had saved his life.

“Do you want to fuck someone?” Blunt, effective.

“No,” instantly. “Yes. I don’t know.”

The curl of his lips was sour, he snatched a grape up for the visceral pleasure of popping it between his teeth.

“Come here,” Laurent said, and drew his legs up so Nicaise could sit, Laurent’s hips a backboard. Nicaise did. 

“Undo your robe,” he said. Nicaise did. Without the folds of cloth in the way, Laurent could see his cock. There was olive oil to dip little pieces of bread in, and Laurent spilled some into his hand and more on the tile. Then, he took Nicaise in hand and stroked him, matter-of-fact.

Nicaise let out a breathy exhale, the same sort of sound Damen did when he submerged himself in hot water after a long training bout. 

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” Nicaise asked, turning his head to look at Laurent, all fawning lashes and still breathy.

“Don’t be absurd,” Laurent said, and Nicaise laughed, loud enough to be heard outside the veils. Whatever assumption courtiers would have about what they were up to, it wouldn’t be this.

Nicaise relaxed, or at least lost himself to the rhythm of Laurent’s hand.

It was far from a performance. Nicaise had done enough of those that he knew how to round out the edges of the distasteful aspects of the act; the flinching, the sounds. Chalis made a fake-heat, but it could be ridden and mastered and used to artifice desire when none was present, but did not compare. The heat rode you. Some manner of indulgence was necessary, or pain. Laurent let Nicaise thrust into his hand rather than bothering to continue to stroke him, and Nicaise defaulted to the panicked sort of thrusting that belied urgency and not grace. The oil in Laurent’s palm dripped between his fingers and flicked onto his clothes and the bench. When Nicaise spent, it was onto Laurent’s pants.

He did not soften or calm. So it would be for several hours yet.

“Breathe,” Laurent said, and Nicaise stopped taking in gulps of air, stopped shaking like a horse ridden hard. He did glare at Laurent, bitter and deprived, though not enough to take himself in hand. Lauren handed him a chilled glass and again, he drank it at once. This one was metal, so it did not matter when he dropped it with a clang.

“Now what?” Nicaise asked.

Laurent reached for a handkerchief. The water would not mix with the oil and lift the stains, but it might make it easier for the laundresses.

“Now, you tie your robes and walk back to your rooms to wait through it,” Laurent said. Then, he reconsidered. “Or, find yourself a pet of your own. You have funds for it.”

Nicaise sniffed in distaste but did put himself back together. Within a few moments, he looked calmer than he had when he first intruded, more in control. He snatched a plum as he stood, ate half of it in one bite, the juices trickling down the corners of his mouth. As he left, parting the veils, he chucked the stone at Laurent, aiming for his face, before he slipped away.

Laurent caught it with no difficulty, and dropped it on the ground. The sun would set in a few hours, and the palace would cool down. Then he would rouse himself. For now, he would remain. 


End file.
